


Behold the Fire (but where is the lamb?)

by ScarredHope



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Ishval, Just Roll With It, Not-so-subtle Jesus references, Pre-Canon, Tragedy, and Transcendentalism shockingly, basically the Scarlet letter threw up all over canon, crossposted, how does one tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarredHope/pseuds/ScarredHope
Summary: "They were the malevolent gods of the godforsaken desert"Roy and Riza in the direct aftermath of Ishval and what lead them to that point.





	Behold the Fire (but where is the lamb?)

She knelt before her dirt alter, carefully packing down the top layer. It was truly more sand than dirt, as was typical in the arid hell hole she found herself in. It was gritty between her fingers, but helped mask the blood that lingered. Blood from the child that lay separated from her by only a couple meager feet of sand. Blood from the hundreds more that would receive no burial, left to the harsh sun. The blood of their mothers and fathers and of the infinite futures they once possessed.  
  
All of it lay on her hands, smeared across palms that had barely seen twenty years.  
  
And so she prayed, right there, kneeling over the altar she had made with her own bloody hands.  
  
And so he came upon her then, approached the sanctuary she had built in the harsh desert to house her own sin. He encroached upon her confession. Day always followed Night.  
  
The desert took away as much as it gave: A youthful face marred by lines that should have come in decades later. Eyes heavy with lack of sleep and bounds of guilt. Hands so like her own.  
  
Yet his blood was hers, in a way that he could never shoulder her own.  
  
She lay claim to his sins, his damnation. For she had created him:  
  
Her father's Beloved Secret was conceived at the death of her mother. Unable to capture it's immortality, Berthold bestowed it onto his daughter, branded it deep within her very being.  
  
She, in turn, shared it with Mr. Mustang, forging the “Saviour” from their mingling, its own immaculate conception.  
  
And so he went forth, the “Flame Alchemist”, spreading his naive ideals on paper thin wings.  
  
“If I strengthen this country, protect its people with my own hands, I would be happy. That's why I studied alchemy,,” he preached, his first devout follower hanging onto every word with a hope she did not know she possessed (least of all for foolish young boys).  
  
He starts his public duty in the army. The position of officer and state alchemist gives a man like him-charming and charismatic- far too much power. Like so many others, it was his ideals that ultimately lead him astray. The one place where he put his faith of what was just and right, betrayed him; stabbed the very things he believed in most in the back.  
  
And thus the blood he shed christened him the “Hero of Ishval”.  
  
She had followed blindly, his idealistic beliefs her lantern guide.  
  
And there they were: surrounded by a brutalized landscape, the malevolent gods of a godforsaken desert.  
  
Her hands dug further into the sand, the rough particles digging into her palm.  
  
And then he spoke: “Aren't you leaving? You’ll get left behind.”  
  
This voice was so different from when he had preached to her; when before his dulcet tones had imbued her with the strength of his golden dream, now he sounded like how her stinging palms felt. More like a prisoner desperately scratching at the bars that confined him then the cloying taste of honey.  
  
“Is that for a comrade?”  
  
Her paltry mound wouldn't even be fitting for a fellow comrade, least of all the burned faith it truly represented.  
  
“No, sir. It's for an Ishvalan child.”  
  
She had found him sprawled along the side of the road, tossed there like a piece of trash.  
  
Unable to take any more of her grief and guilt, she picked him up and carried him carefully, as if her own to where she knelt now: her place of confession and his final rest.  
  
Roy’s eyes flitted between the burned stock that marked the grave and his disciple.  
  
“Let's go home,” he pleaded.  
  
“The war is over,” he lied.  
  
“Inside me the war isn't over yet.” A hard, flinty look overtook her eyes. “It will never end as long as I live”  
  
She looked back at him, a cruel sort of smile stretched across her lips, “ I'm afraid I have dig us both into this grave. Coated us both in the sins of this ‘war’.”  
  
Her eyes drifted to look at her hands, pale bruised things that clenched her uniform. She shook, “Despite that, I have a favor to ask of you.”  
  
Roy hesitated, halting any movement as his brain flew at unbelievable speeds instead.  
  
“My back, Major,” she stared deep into his eyes, his very being. “I want you to burn my back beyond recognition.”  
  
“What?” Roy screams, eyes wide with disbelief. “I would never do such a thing.” His shout is even more desperate. Roy Mustang knew he had done many brutal, horrible acts. Riza had already followed in his footsteps- she had her own crimes- she would not become one of his.  
  
“You will,” she screams back. “If I can never be absolved of my crimes, than the least I can do is prevent any other Flame Alchemist from being born into this world.”  
  
"Remove my father's burden, allow me what little freedom I dare claim from this world."  
  
Her voice drops into a heady whisper,"It must be done. I'm begging you."  
  
He can not stand to look at her. This hardened solidier that knelt before him had once been a a pair of small hands and eyes that poked into her father's office to get a glimpse at his new student. And between them had been the demure Miss Hawkeye who had given her back to ideas more naive than the sky is wide.  
  
And yet he owed it that little girl trapped with her recluse father, to the young woman who had given him power beyond measure, to the praying soldier stooped over a hand dug grave.  
  
"How ironic," he chuckled a stomach-turning bitter sound,"that this war has made me much too accustomed to burning people."

  


(A few weeks later, the sickly smell of burning flesh indicates the christening of Riza Hawkeye)

**Author's Note:**

> AN: (not that anyone cares)
> 
> Well, this took longer than I thought it would! A quick little one shot that was planted into my head during IB English, took well over a month to get done. That being said I'm not shocked if there are any mistakes as this like everything I do is unbeta-ed. This was inspired by the Scarlet Letter, which is the only thing that would inspire an ignostic girl to write something I fondly called "the Jesus fic", the title is even a paraphrased version of Exodus 22:7. Surprising me, like the Scarlet Letter, a bit of transcendentalism snuck in, which is only because of the source material.
> 
> That leads me to my next point, most of the dialogue out of volume 15 of the manga, specifically chapter 61. Some was paraphrased or changed but if it looks familiar, it isn't mine.
> 
> This is my first FMA fic so I'm curious about any reception I may get. I might eventually write about the actual burning of Riza's back (because what Royai writer doesn't?), but I'm not planning to in the near future. So if you want a beautifully written version I would go read Beautiful People by That-Hoopy-Frood. In fact go read all of their stuff, it's dark and gorgeously written, and honestly needs more love.
> 
> Anywho, thanks for reading  
> -S/H


End file.
